To Marvel at Death
by nightfuries
Summary: The 37th Games were a hit with the Capitol audience, but with a rebel for a new victor, the president is not pleased. A revolution looms in Panem's future, one the newly promoted Head Gamemaker must deal with. And there's only one way to stifle rebellion: a gory, devestating set of Games with a memorable theme. Fairytales are so last year - now comic books rule the arena.
1. The Whispers of Rebels

**Zeus Dynamos, District 1 Victor of the 2****nd**** Hunger Games**

I'm getting too old for this. It was disturbing enough when I started, but now I'm fifty-four and still, the Capitol calls me back for this. I sigh quietly as the train slows into the station – it's just me on board, unless you count the handful of Avoxes, which I don't. Usually I'm accompanied by Splendor or Julius, both of whom are rather popular amongst Capitol citizen both old and young alike, but the two of them just returned from a weeklong stay a few days ago. So it's just me.

Of course, there are probably other victors out in the city, ones I might see when I return to the Training Tower after my . . . job. Xanner Bryne, Aaryn Burch, maybe even Lura Carson – I've heard she's become quite a hit now that she's eighteen. I don't care about any of them, though; they're just average mentors, loved by the Capitol while of little importance to myself and the other victors. Because they're not part of the rebellion.

The train comes to a stop and, reluctantly, I rise to disembark. It's late, ten at least, but of course the Capitol is still alive and bustling. I didn't think the train station was used for anything but dropping off produce and materials from the districts, not to mention the annual arrival of the tributes, but it turns out after a year of Games is finished, tracks are built out to arena for people to visit the arena and tour in style. Hovercrafts don't come with onboard dining services.

I can see another train now, large signs positioned out front declaring _Haunted Nights Arena Tours_ and _Visit the 28__th__ arena like never before. Limited Time Only! _Unfortunately, it has yet to leave, and quite a few people are milling around the waiting area, chatting aimlessly and playing games on their wireless devices. Of course this all stops immediately as I step onto the platform.

"Is that . . . is that _Zeus Dynamos_?"

"Oh my god."

"Quick, grab the camera, dear!"

"Oh my god!"

"Mr Dynamos, Mr Dynamos! Will you sign my arm?"

"Oh. My. God!"

Once upon a time I might have enjoyed all this attention, but now my smiles seems forced as I struggle through the crowd, trying to dodge the pens shoved in my face as people fight for autographs. I'm overwhelmed by the sheer amount of colours; blue, orange, pink, green – these people are all colours of the rainbow, and that's not even taking their clothes into account. Red, purple, yellow, white – it's making my head hurt, something the numerous flashes of cameras isn't doing anything to help. I don't mind crowds usually, but these screaming Capitolites get old fast, and as the seconds pass and the mob refuses to move, I find it harder and harder to stop my old Hunger Games reflexes from kicking in. _Punch the one in the front; he collapses into the others, sending them all to the ground. Kick to the right, elbow strike to the left, leap over the fallen bodies and make a run for it._

"Mr Dynamos."

In the presence of such colour, black stands out like a ruby amidst sapphires, and the two men in dark suits making their way towards me are impossible to miss. The crowd catches sight of them too, and after watching them forcefully push a rather excited fan away, everyone quickly backs off, though they're still shouting enthusiastically, snapping pictures from the sidelines. In moments, the men have cleared me a path, where I can see a familiar black car waiting parked right by the station road. Always the same – too bad the job doesn't get any less detestable.

Nodding to the men, I make my way past the crowd, still smiling and giving cocky, sarcastic waves that I've became known for after I won the Games. People whoop and cheer, hands still outstretching with fingers clenched tightly around pens, or just empty and desperately trying to touch the second victor in Hunger Games history.

Compared to the roars of the crowd, the car is almost a relief as I slip inside, shutting the door firmly behind me. The two men follow suit, getting in up front and I allow myself to relax slightly as one of them puts the car into gear, trying to drive off despite the amount of people crowding around the vehicle and standing on the road. _Take as long as you need, _I think, allowing my eyes to close as the sound of the car's horn cuts through the muffled applause from outside. _I'm in no rush._

All too soon, the vehicle clears the sea of people and their shouts slowly fade into nothingness as we hit the highway, zooming away from the station to head for the main city. Or perhaps this appointment will be held more in the Capitol's "suburbs", a collection of quaint neighbourhoods that lack the hustle and bustle of the more urban sprawl. Usually these "invitations" come with notes and addresses, but I told them to stop sending me those a long time ago. Holding a card in my hand, it was impossible not to take my eyes off the name scrawled at the bottom, the name of a person disgusting enough to buy me for an evening. At least without one, I can just pretend I'm going on a pleasant little car ride.

I snort at the thought; when do I ever ride in a car, unless it's driving me somewhere awful?

The question is answered the moment the vehicle stops, and I find myself cracking an eye open to take in the home we've stopped outside. Once it registers, however, I shoot straight up, a small smile beginning to creep onto my face. This isn't just anyone's house – it's _hers_.

I hop out of the car before the men in suits even need to ask, striding quickly towards the front door. The car won't pull away until they're positive I've entered my client's house – wouldn't want a victor cheating the president's glorious system. Occasionally, I've entertained the idea of running, of seeing how far I could get before Capitol personnel finally caught me, but this time, all I care about is getting into that house. I hate all Capitolites, loathe visiting their homes late at night – but there's one exception to that rule.

She opens the door moments after I knock, one hand on her hip and eyebrow raised as she takes in the sight of me on her doorstep.

"Zeus?"

"No, of _course_ not_._"

"Yep, that's you."

And Verena Metoph steps aside, allowing me into her house.

It's one of those quaint, "old-fashioned" designs, without all the bells and whistles that most of the Capitol homes contain. Wooden floors, soft colours for the walls, pictures of her family spread intermittently throughout the place. I don't care much for the décor, though – seen it all before – and turn quickly back to the object of interest herself. "So, you called?"

"No, of _course _not."

For a Capitolite, she's surprisingly well-versed in the art of sarcasm. "Kids?"

"At their friends', having a Hunger Games marathon."

She doesn't seem all too happy with that fact, but then again, that's not a surprise. I've known Verena since I was twenty-four, back when she was known as Verena Honeytiller, and she's been against the Hunger Games from the start. Refreshing from a Capitolite, but I still find it odd – after all, she married a Gamemaker. "Husband?"

"Off overseeing the construction of this year's arena. They build a small, temporary hotel out there for the Gamemakers so they don't have to fly back and forth each night." She pauses for a moment. "You know, he's the Head Gamemaker now."

"_Is _he?" That's an interesting piece of news; not to mention highly beneficial for us. "When did that happen? No, wait, don't tell me." I hold up a hand just as Verena opens her mouth. "Right after the 37th Games? President off Lilibeth for allowing Janaff Skye to win?"

Verena's lips press into a hard line as I casually discuss the murder of her husband's ex-boss. "Officially, she's gone missing."

"And unofficially, Varlios killed her." Verena bites her lip and I raise an eyebrow – even if her husband was too naïve to see it, she must have realised that's the truth. I enjoy insulting Capitolites as much as the next district citizen, but Mrs Metoph is not the same airhead most are. "Anyways, forget that. You didn't call me here to talk about Lilibeth," I continue, the same excitement I'd felt in the car coursing through me once more. "Don't you have something you want to _show _me?"

That's all it takes to get her striding off to the bedroom, me following closely behind.

She reaches the large master bed and sits, but before we can continue, I have to double check. "So you're positive we won't be interrupted?"

"Yes."

"Absolutely sure?" It'd be rather unfortunate if someone walked in on us while we got down to business.

She frowns at me. "_Yes_. We've been fine all those other times, haven't we?"

True. "All right then," I say, beginning to unbutton the light jacket I wear. "Let's get started."

_Click._

Verena retracts her hand from the bedpost, where the button to the secret compartment is hidden, and reaches down to withdraw the files from the drawer. I take a seat on the bed beside her, tossing my coat carelessly in a corner of the room – won't be needing it anytime soon. I've been here enough to know this house always feels like a furnace.

"I can't believe your husband still uses that thing," I say, shaking my head as she shuts the compartment, the door clicking closed and now impossible to detect in the seemingly solid bed frame. "Head Gamemaker and he still leaves hardcopies of his files out like that?"

"They're back ups in case the system is hacked," she responds, shuffling the papers around to find the one she wanted to show me. "And besides, who would go looking for them here?"

"You."

"I'm his wife."

"And the rebellion's most loyal Capitol ally." I snicker at her expression. "Your husband sure knows how to pick 'em."

Her frown deepens. "Stop. I thought you agreed to stop insulting Kelwin."

"Was that an insult?"

She rolls her eyes and continues to shuffle the files around, leaving me to wait and watch. As much as I hate to admit it, it feels good to talk with Verena, to return to my almost-old self. For a while there, after everything that happened with Achilles, I wasn't sure I'd ever smile again.

At least I have the twins. Abalone is watching over them while I'm gone, but she's let me keep them seeing as, with her guidance, I'm slowly learning how to be a good father. I may not be great, but I'm a whole lot better than my own dad ever was.

"Here." A blueprint is shoved under my nose, so large it's been folded multiple times just so it could be wedged inside the drawer. I take it from Verena's hand, glancing at her for an explanation, but none is offered. So, with nothing else to do, I unfold the blueprint.

And my jaw drops.

"It's based on these," Verena says, picking up some story from her bedside table. "Comic books. They're the latest fad, all about superheroes saving the day."

"So once again your husband is getting famous for being the biggest plagiarist in the Capitol." I try to keep my tone casual, but I'm positive the shock I feel can still be heard. _Is this really possible? _And this diagram off to the side, the writing around it . . . no, they couldn't possibly pull something this intricate off. Could they?

Verena doesn't look impressed; at least she seems to have missed my stunned expression. "Now that was definitely an insult."

"All right, you got me." I lean over, jabbing my finger at the picture that holds my attention. "This is a joke, right?"

"Of course not."

"But that's . . . how can they do something like this?"

"They did something similar last year."

"Yes, but . . ." Abandoning all attempts to act unconcerned, I meet Verena's gaze, desperately hoping to see the joke hidden within. "There are _hundreds _of them."

"And think what we could do with that."

My brow knits together in confusion, then slowly, my eyes move back to the picture._ Think what we could do with that . . ._

Oh.

Oh, _yes_.

"We can hit them where it hurts," Verena says, taking the blueprint from my hands to analyse it herself. "And we can destroy the Hunger Games from the inside out. I know Spinel was talking about waiting for the next Quarter Quell, seeing as those Games are planned years in advance, but this is our _chance_, Zeus. With Janaff in Eight and Twelve's escort on our side, we have someone in every district. The rebellion can happen this year. It can happen _now_."

She's right. Screw the planning, if we act fast, we could overthrow the Capitol before the fourth decade of Hunger Games rolls around. We don't have to wait for any Quarter Quell, especially not with Verena's husband as Head Gamemaker. She'll be able to manipulate him to get what we need, though this arena's already more than we could ever have hoped for. We can do this. I made a mistake with Achilles, forcing him into the Games, and it's one I'll regret for the rest of my life. But if I can end the Hunger Games, give his children a life without the horrors of being reaped, it'd feel like I was . . . making it up to him.

"Yes," I say suddenly, and Verena glances up from the file. "Yes. Let's do it now." _For Achilles._

She stares at me a moment, almost surprised – perhaps she was expecting more of a Spinel response, where I'd sit and think things over for, oh, ten years. But that's not how I work. "Really?" Her expression changes immediately as I nod, lips quirking into a smile and eyes glimmering with that rebellious fire I'd first caught sight of twenty-nine years ago. "Excellent. We'll have to tell the others immediately. And, of course, there's all sorts of planning to do in terms of . . ."

She begins to ramble on about the arena and how we can use it to our advantage, her lack of hesitation leading me to believe she's been thinking this over for a while. Her brains, not to mention her connections, are an incredible asset to the rebellion, yet I feel a slight pang of guilt every time she helps us out. Because I know her aid is only due to the impossible promise I made her when she first showed interest in overthrowing the Capitol. That day, I'd looked her straight in the eye and sworn that both her kids and her husband would be safe from the destruction the rebellion was sure to bring. But in reality, there's no way to guarantee that, especially now that Kelwin has been promoted. How can I tell the rebels that the Head Gamemaker, the one whose entire life is devoted to murdering twenty-three district children a year, deserves to live?

I sigh inwardly, glancing back at the blueprint in her hand. I guess I'll figure that part out later. For now, though, best listen to Verena's ideas for the rebellion, seeing as we'll need to stop this year's Hunger Games early on. Because if we don't, then, judging by these plans, the tributes are going to have one hell of a nightmare inside the arena. And survival might just be impossible.


	2. Old Faces and New

_**And here it is! Sorry this took so long to write, it ended up being A LOT longer than I'd originally thought. Story of my life :) Hopefully it'll still be interesting though! I know these reapings can get a little dull, but we've got a ton of really interesting characters this time around, so I'll do my best to make them all unique :) You guys definitely deserve interesting chapters, especially with the amazing response I got to posting the intro! 15 reviews, 11 favs and 24 follows for the first chapter? That's incredible! Seriously, you guys all rock :D**_

_**Speaking of which, the blog is done! More on that at the end of the chapter :) Oh, and disclaimer: I don't own The Hunger Games. Or any comic books. Or the short poem in this chapter.**_

_**Without further ado, here are District 1's tributes, created by mrslukecastellan and LeviAntonius**_

* * *

**Caspian Thicket**

It's five against one. The towering figures loom over me, each one armed with a knife at the least. Whereas I have no weapons, no allies and almost no energy left. But maybe I can last for one more fight.

I lunge at the first training dummy before it even has a chance to react. They're stronger than any human opponent, but also slower, unable to react well to sudden changes in battle. So the mannequin has no time to change is angle of attack as I switch quickly from a lunge to a dive, sliding right between its two thick legs just as the dummy behind me throws its spear, hitting its supposed ally instead of its intended target.

Slower and stupider. Not really a challenge but eh, they'll do for today.

The fallen figure had a sword clenched tightly in its right hand, and it's this that my fingers scramble for, wrenching the blade from the mannequin's grasp. And just like that, I know it's all over for the training dummies. Careers train with all sorts of weapons, but everyone always has a preference. And once I gain that preference, I'm unstoppable.

One stab in the heart for the dummy with a mace. Duck an axe swing, then slice the attacker. Two more down. Dodge another thrown spear, sprint forward and skewer the next figure before it has a chance to grab another weapon. One left.

Turn, feint, stab, kill.

Piece of cake.

I yank my sword out of the training dummy's padded stomach, looking around at the carnage that surrounds me. Five down in less than five minutes – that has to be some kind of record. See, Caspian? You're ready for this, you're so ready for this.

_No I'm not._

"Whoa."

My moment of weakness is quickly interrupted by another – thank goodness. With the presence of other people, usually my oh-so-adoring fans, it becomes much easier to fulfill the role of cocky, confident Career. Which I do now, my lips twisting up into a smirk even as I turn to catch sight of the Training Centre's two newcomers.

Kajmeer Nyelaun and Luster Blackwell have been trying to claw their way up the popularity ladder for as long as anyone can remember and, for the most part, they've never had any success – perhaps due to their scrawny frames and acne-riddled faces that set them so far apart from the rest of District 1's flawless teens. Back when Cordelia, Bree and I were the coolest of the cool in our age group, both boys would constantly try to get close to us, hoping that our popularity might magically rub off on them. It got to the point where Luster asked Bree out, trying to improve his status – an endeavour that didn't end well for him. After that, the two stayed away.

At least until last year. I'm still as popular as ever, yet somehow I've lost all the people I could call "friends", and now these two idiots are trying to fill the void. Of course, that could never happen, but I figure I might as well keep them around. Praise always sounds better coming from others than yourself.

"Dude, that was _epic_!" Kaj steps around a fallen dummy, wide eyes staring at the sword impaled through its "heart". "So awesome!"

"Totally," Luster agrees, but he sounds distracted, narrowed gaze darting from me to the dummies to the door he just entered. I don't bother to address it, merely widening my smirk for their benefit – at least until Luster continues, "How exactly did you get in here though? Training Centre like, just opened."

_Crap. _I forgot on reaping day, the place opens later to give the trainers a bit of time to sleep in. "Well, I . . ." I can feel my façade fading with every hesitation – come on, Caspian, think of something! "I, uh . . ."

"Wait." Kajmeer's brown eyes light up, smiling just like his lips, and for one horrible second, I believe he's found me out. "You broke in, didn't you? To train early? Hah, so badass!"

_Thank god. _"Of course," I say casually, smirk returning easily as I lean back against the wall. "Gotta train as much as I can if I'm going to volunteer. Not like I need the practice though."

The extra line was added to cover up any falter in my act I might have had previously, but I don't think the two boys even noticed it. The word "volunteer" has entranced them too much.

"You're still planning on doing it? Even though Daryus is going for it too?" Luster asks, referring to the eighteen-year-old muscleman also desiring a spot in the Games. "Sweet!"

"Don't forget us when you become a victor, all right, Caspian?" Kajmeer laughs, looking for all the world like he's just told the most hilarious joke. As it couldn't be possible for me to forget him and his little friend.

Ha, yeah right. Sorry boys, but I never considered you my friends, nor will I seek you out after I become a victor. I have standards, and I'm sure even more people will be desperate to get close to me after I become the victor of the 38th Games.

_If you become the victor. If._

_She didn't._

"Caspian, you all right?" Luster's green eyes are wide, with just a hint of worry to them – an immediate hint that I've screwed something up, let something in my façade falter. "You look a little pale."

"I'm fine," I say quickly, my desperate tone making the words sound a lot less genuine than I wanted. Luckily I've had plenty of practice rebuilding my arrogant Career act, and in less than a second, another smirk is plastered back on my face. "Just been training. Broke in around three in the morning, you know. To get as much practice as I could."

Kajmeer giggles. "_So _badass. I bet you'd sleep here all night if it meant you could get extra hours to train."

_You have no idea._

And suddenly, I realise that I can't stand another moment with these two. I've kept this front up for ten months, never letting anyone see anything but the surface of a typical District 1 Career. But I'm going to crack. Seeing as today's reaping day. Seeing as, one year ago, this was the last day I saw my best friend alive.

_Cordelia._

"Hey, where're you going?" Kajmeer asks as I push past him, heading for the doors to the Centre. They don't need an explanation, don't deserve one – they're just two random kids from school who only care about the perks that come with hanging around me. Still, cocky Caspian, Career Caspian, wouldn't brush them off rudely. Career Caspian loves talking with people.

_And to think one year ago, this wasn't an act. You were genuinely that guy._

"I'm done training. Look at me, do I look like I need more practice?" All I'm wearing is a pair of old training clothes that haven't been washed in a week, but still I look the part of the impressive Career. Biceps flexing, abs clearly visible since the sweat has my white shirt clinging tightly to my stomach – I've got more muscle than Kajmeer and Luster could ever hope to gain. Which is no doubt why the two nod at my words, exchanging grins as though I've already been announced a victor.

"So where're you heading now? We can come along." Kajmeer says eagerly, stepping forwards and Luster follows close behind.

"_No_." The word is much firmer, much harsher than Career Caspian's usual tone, but I don't care right now – there's no way they're coming with me. Not to the place I'm heading.

"Why not?" Luster asks, and once more I can tell he's picked up the fact that something's wrong. Something's different.

"Because I'm going to get ready for the reapings." The lie is effortless, and once more I find myself slipping into Career Caspian's personality like a second skin – which I guess, in a way, it is. "Gotta look perfect when I'm on camera for all of Panem to see."

I run a hand through my short, golden hair for effect, and immediately they revert back to my adoring fans, alternating between gushing compliments and excited babble on how they can't wait to watch me in action. Most of their words don't even register in my brain and I turn away without a second thought, ignoring the calls of "See you at the reapings!" and "Dude, this is going to be awesome!" Career Caspian would laugh, nod, maybe flash a smirk or flex his muscles.

But I can't be Career Caspian right now. Not where I'm going.

* * *

**Raven Briseis**

Such a strange phenomenon, how two halves of the same whole can look so different. One so hideous and one so . . . beautiful. The shards of mirror that hang across from each other in my room demonstrate this perfectly.

Although, I suppose it's not the mirrors that are different. No, they merely reflect the anomaly. The irregularity lies with me and me alone.

I stand in the centre of my lavish bedroom, bare feet rubbing against the soft carpet as I turn from one wall to the other, obsessively noting the difference between the two views. Mirror by my window: long, thick, dark hair, perfectly shaped grey eye, high, sharp cheekbones, straight nose, thin lips, pointy chin.

Beautiful.

Mirror by my door: a large gap where hair should be, an eye completely withered, skin burned and red, everywhere red, all across the left side of my face.

Hideous.

Turn.

Beautiful.

Turn.

Hideous.

So different. So different. And all it took was one hot pot of tea. No big accident, no explosion, no action-packed tale or sympathy-inducing story. Just a hot pot of tea and one girl's very clumsy fingers. But beautiful. Long and thin with shimmering nails at the tops; that I remember. It's not right. She doesn't deserve those fingers. I could make better use of them. It wouldn't take much, just a slice of a knife and they'd be mine. The elite Training Centre for District 1's most upper class has plenty of machetes, and I train with them all the time. And throwing knives. I can hit the middle of the target from all the way across the Centre's enormous gym. Chopping fingers wouldn't be nearly as hard. I'm sure it wouldn't. And then, if I took them, maybe I wouldn't be so . . .

Hideous.

Turn.

Beautiful.

"Raven! Raven!" Behind me, I can hear the pounding of footsteps, followed by the creak of my door as it opens. I'm still staring deeply into the mirror, and in its reflection I can see my sister entering my room. We look so similar, Amethyst and I. And yet, at the same time, we're so different. Two halves of the same whole. Each a daughter of the Briseis family. But so, so different. Now that Amethyst is fifteen, she's filling out in all the right places while her cheeks loses their childlike chubbiness to make way for the face of a young woman. A beautiful young woman.

When I hit fifteen, my face had already been covered in scars and tinted this ugly shade of red. No one ever called me beautiful after the accident, when I was fourteen. But here stands Amethyst, a year older than I'd been at the time, and she gets compliments every day. "Oh, Amethyst, you have such beautiful eyes!" "Amethyst, your hair is absolutely gorgeous!" "Wow, looking sexy today, Amy!"

That used to be me. That should _still _be me.

"What are you doing in here?" Amethyst rolls her eyes as she approaches; unlike with our parents, her behaviour around me hasn't changed much since the accident. Most people are worried I'm _crazy_. Most people are worried I might do something dangerous. But not Amethyst.

Maybe she's just not afraid because she thinks she could take me if I attacked her. I'll bet that's what it is. She's arrogant like that. She thinks she can beat me in everything just because she's _prettier_. It's not fair – I was here _first_. I was better in training, better in school, better in looks. The accident should have happened to _her_.

"Hello? Earth to Raven?" Amethyst snaps her fingers in front of my face and unconsciously, I'm reminded of similar fingers I'd been pondering earlier. Amethyst doesn't deserve pretty fingers either. "Mom's finished washing your dress, if you want to get into it. You can get your hair and makeup done first after, I'll wait a bit."

Of course she'll wait. She's flawless already. She doesn't have an enormous, hideous scar to cover with layers and layers of foundation that never can manage to hide the obvious. When she volunteers in two or three years, she won't have to worry about looking gorgeous for all of Panem. But Mother and Father said it was my turn this year, and I can already hear the gasps of horror when I walk up on that stage. District 1 always has beautiful tributes; everyone will be appalled at my appearance.

And did most of those beautiful tributes make it home? _No_. None of them deserved beauty, _none of them. _My hands clench into fists as the rage bubbles within me at the thought of all the past children who went into the Games. The blonde bombshell in the 35th Games. A dark-skinned, willowy teen in the 36th. And the girl with the glowing smile and bouncing brown curls in the 37th. All undeserving.

And all dead. So I guess they got what was coming to them in the end.

The thought isn't enough to make me smile, but a feeling of calm content washes over me and slowly, my hands relax. Amethyst doesn't even notice – the moment I became wrapped in my own thoughts, she turned her attention to the half a mirror on my wall, primping the one side of her face she can see.

"I don't know why you don't get this thing fixed, Ray," she says, frowning as she probes her skin for zits. Of course, she finds none; not on the flawless Amethyst Briseis. "It's kind of inconvenient. Not to mention, you know, like, seven years of bad luck."

This brings a laugh to my lips. I broke the mirror after the accident, back when the sight of my injury had horrified, not fascinated me. My seven years of bad luck started long before the looking glass cracked. "Afraid of a little bad omen, Amethyst? Aren't Careers supposed to be brave and fearless?" _And beautiful and flawless. I'm the first two, I _am. _But all people care about are the last ones._

Amethyst narrows her eyes at me – while she doesn't treat me much differently, my behaviour towards transformed along with my face. Before the accident, we were the stereotypical image of sisters: we'd argue and fight occasionally, but overall, we were on relatively good terms.

That was before I realised how she was trying to replace me. Maybe Amethyst never said it, but I know – I'm _smarter_. She's number one at our neighbourhood's Training Centre now that I rarely go, she's got more friends and, of course, she has the absolute attention of our parents. Oh, they support me in going into the Games, all right, just like they used to – but they don't think I can win anymore. No, they think I'm _crazy._ They think I can't win because the Capitol doesn't like crazy victors. And they're fine with that. If I die, they won't care because they have Amethyst to replace me, to win the Games, to bring them their long-awaited glory. They hate me because of the accident, because my beautiful, flawless appearance was ruined. Well I. Hate. _Them._

"Just don't come crying to me if bad luck ruins your chance at volunteering. I hear there's some tough competition for the girls this year. Trying to redeem ourselves since the last Games – seriously, a District One girl coming in sixteenth? Could you believe it?"

"_Yes_." Last year was that bubbly idiot who competed, with nothing more than her cute looks going for her. Oh, but beauty can't protect you from being burned, now can it? I know that all too well and it was the last lesson Cordelia Schylla ever learned. Another pretty tribute gone; I'll admit, my smile was enormous when she died.

Amethyst doesn't have quite the same react as I do and shakes her head before turning away; apparently even my perfect, _flawless _sister can tire of my company. "Whatever. Mom's waiting for you, like I said. Probably shouldn't keep her waiting."

And with that, she leaves my room. But before she does, I catch sight of her in the mirror by the door. The one that ruins me. The one that shows my scars, my missing hair, my ugly, red skin.

Hideous.

But Amethyst looks the same. The exact same as she did in the other mirror.

Beautiful.

Anger begins to boil within me once more, fists forming so tight that my nails dig deep into my palms, drawing blood. Ugly nails. Ugly hands. Ugly Raven. But beautiful Amethyst.

_She doesn't deserve it._

* * *

**Caspian Thicket**

_Wonderful memories of one so dear  
Treasured still with a love sincere  
In our hearts she is living yet  
We loved her too dearly to forget._

_Cordelia Schylla (2572 – 2588)_

It's been almost a year and I still can't believe it. My best . . . my best friend. Lying cold and alone underground in the special cemetery just down the street from Victor's Village, where all the deceased tributes rest. I can't believe we used to walk by this place on the way to Cori's house and make fun of the people buried here. District 1 is rather large, and we never knew any tributes personally. No, to us, they were just the failures, the jokes, the ones that didn't make it. We'd laugh about them, talk about how stupid they must have been during their Games. Never once could we have possibly imagined that eventually, one of us would come to rest here.

_Maybe even two._

Now the tears are really threatening to fall, but I force myself to hold them back, instead trying to distract myself from my own fears by speaking. "H-Hey, Cori," I say, kneeling in the grass in front of her grave. It's beautifully decorated with fresh flowers, violets and roses and lilies. "Sorry I didn't . . . bring you anything." My next breath is a sharp gasp, an attempt to ward off the impending sobs, but I can still feel my throat closing, my eyes stinging, choked voice barely able to get the words out. "Just thought I'd . . . come say h-hi. I haven't seen you too much lately and . . ." I stop short, worried that if I continue, I won't be able to stop, but what does it matter? No one comes to the graveyard – here, I can be myself. And show the side of me I've kept bottled up far too long.

"I'm _scared_." The words burst forth from my mouth just as my resolve cracks and my true fear shows. Normally, I'm good at hiding it, at pushing things far below the surface; but how can I do that when my dead best friend is so close to me, a constant warning of my impending fate? "I'm supposed to volunteer today and I . . . I don't want to die! Cori, what am I supposed to do? If you couldn't do it . . . and you were the daughter of a victor . . ."

_Don't continue that thought. Don't. _But the idea has already occurred to me and I dissolve into silent sobs, tears watering the grave of my friend. How different this day went, just a year ago. God, we were such idiots back then, believing we could pull off three victories in a row. We thought we were invincible. But we're not, and the terrible proof is right in front of me. Death is real. Death is painful. And death is painful. I don't . . . I can't die like her. Not at seventeen. Please.

"I can't believe I found you here."

The sharp words startle me and instinctively, my hands rise to wipe the tears from my eyes. But then the voice registers and my arms drop back to my sides. I know this newcomer, without even having to turn. And she's the one person I don't mind seeing me cry.

Partially because her own eyes are red-rimmed and glistening with freshly formed tears as I twist to look at her. Bree Artello, my best friend. At least, she used to be. I was hoping she still would, but after hearing about my plan even after what happened to Cordelia, she decided to sever all ties with me. We haven't spoken in months. Yet now she's here, and while it's a surprising development, I can guess easily at why she's come.

The silence between us grows heavy and Bree tears her gaze away from mine, instead choosing to glare down at a patch of grass near her feet. "Here, of all places."

"She was my friend too."

"That makes it worse."

I don't want to argue; not today and definitely not here. But she insists on bringing up sensitive topics and no matter how much I try to convince her, she's never agreed with my decision. I don't blame her, but that doesn't change the fact that I miss her. A lot. "Bree-"

"How could you still think of volunteering?!" she explodes, not even giving me a chance to finish. "Cori _died_, Caspian! It's not a game like they make you believe – people . . . people die and they don't come back. You can see that, you should _understand_! And yet you still want to throw yourself into the arena, knowing the risks? How-" Her voice catches and I'm shocked to see that, instead of the pure anger she used to have, her eyes also hold an incredible sadness that becomes more prominent as her tears begin to fall. "How could you do that?"

_I don't want to. I really, really don't want to. But-_ "I don't have a choice."

"Ugh, your stupid dad." Bree sniffs as her glare focuses back on me, though it's not as powerful with tears still dripping down her cheeks. "Come on, Caspian, nothing he could do could possibly be worse than what might happen to you in the arena. This is _your_ choice, and you just . . . just want to throw your life away!"

There are so many things I want to tell her. That it's not my choice. That what my father is threatening to do, should I chicken out of volunteering, is far worse than what might happen to me in the Games. She doesn't understand; her parents were against her volunteering from the start, wanting her to grow up to be a proper young lady instead of a "savage, bloodthirsty Career". It took months of convincing to finally get them onboard with the idea of her participating in the Games at eighteen, but they were all too happy when Bree changed her mind after Cori died. My parents – my _father_ – aren't like that.

Carthus Thicket has always been a fan of both the Capitol and everything they produce. His biggest regret was never getting to participate in the Games – until he had a son and realised that, in a small way, he could still accomplish this. By getting me to volunteer. Being raised in the typical Career family, I was raring to prove myself. Until last year when everything changed.

I thought my father had accepted the new version of his son. The one who, realising his own mortality, now wanted to distance himself as much as possible from the Games that had killed his friend. After all, Cori's father is a victor – if anything, she was the best out of our trio. And she died. Only five days into the Games too, not to mention how gruesome and terrifying her end was. It was completely understandable that neither Bree nor I would ever want anything to do with the Hunger Games ever again. And my father respected that.

For a few months.

Then I guess he decided I'd been allotted enough time for grief, and that it was time for me to get back to what he thought was most important: training. Which I found redundant, seeing as I would no longer be going into the Games. I guess this struck a nerve with him; turns out, he'd thought my fears were nothing more than a "temporary weakness". But they were still very much present when we'd had the argument about my volunteering for the 38th Games like we'd originally planned. I'd said no, even after he threatened to kick me out of the house for refusing. That was when the ultimatum was laid down.

My father said he would kill Bree. My only friend left, the only one who knew what I was going through with Cori's death. He said I that if I knew what was good for me, I'd stop worrying about one girl, who was already dead, and start fretting over the other, who would wind up the same way unless I volunteered. I was, understandably, shocked. But I blew it off, calling my father's bluff, laughing at his empty threat.

The next day, he kicked me out of the house. I couldn't believe he was serious until he dumped a small bag of my belongings in some grimy side alley and told me to get lost. Until reaping day. Then I'd show up at our house once more, in preparation for my volunteering. Unless I wanted him to make good on his second threat.

I was stunned. All my life, I'd had a rich home, food on the table and two loving parents to look after me. Finding myself suddenly on the streets, nowhere to go and barely anything to take with me had been a huge break from the existence I'd comfortably led up to that point. The first few nights had been awful; I'd been starving, sick and freezing, a different sort of pain from the bumps and bruises I received during training, but infinitely more powerful and agonising. Even after I'd snuck into one of the district's Training Centres at night and made my home in an abandoned storage closet, things didn't get much better. And no help from my parents ever came. It made me realise just how serious my father had been.

And if he could kicked his only son, his pride and joy out of the house for seven months, who's to say he wouldn't finish his second threat just as easily?

But I can't tell Bree this. She wouldn't understand or, worse, she might try going to the Peacekeepers. Who knows what my father would do to her then. So instead, all I can say is, "Bree, believe me, I don't want to."

She continues to glare at me, but as our eyes meet, she seems to see something within my gaze that shows how honest I'm being. Her furious expression begins to crack, and before I know it, she's sitting down on the dirt with me, crying into my shoulder.

"Y-You're going to . . . make me lose b-both my friends," she manages to say between sobs. A year ago, I would have objected to her ridiculous statement. How could she possibly think for even one second that I would die in the Games? Now though, with Cori . . . well, Bree's words seem all too true. But I still have to do this. Because if not, my father will make me lose both _my_ friends.

I know there's nothing I can say though that could possibly make Bree feel any better, so instead, the silence draws out, draping around us like a blanket and broken only by my friend's occasional sobs. I remain quiet though; all the tears seem to have leaked out of me earlier. Instead I just sit and stare at the tombstone in front of me, wishing with all my heart that Cori could somehow magically come back.

And wishing that I wasn't about to join her in death.

* * *

**Raven Briseis**

My dress is new, a beautiful red and black bodice with the skirt flaring out from underneath, making it nearly impossible to go through doorways. It took me less than ten minutes to get into. Mother wound my hair around my head and curled it over the bald spot – I could almost pretend it hadn't existed. That took about forty-five minutes.

For the rest of the morning, I've sat in a chair while Mother tries to perfect my makeup. But no matter how many times she tries, her efforts never manage to hide the scars across my left face. It's obvious, anyone can see that by looking in the mirror that sits across from me – a whole one this time, not the two halves I have in my room. This one shows both the beautiful and the ugly, and the latter isn't getting any better by my mother's attempts to hide it. Beauty can easily make way for hideousness, I learned that well three years ago. But the process cannot be reversed.

"Well, dear, I think you're about done." My mother steps back, a forced smile on her face as though that's supposed to make me feel better. She does truly have a beautiful smile.

_I hate it._

"Ah, Ray finally done?" For most of the morning, Amethyst was allowed to go hang out with her friends; her appearance doesn't require the labour one must go through to make me look beautiful. But she came back to dress and do her hair, and now she's just waiting to have her makeup done too. Both of us could do our own, if need be, but our mother is far more skilled in the art of painting a person's face, waving a brush this way and that to highlight all our most alluring features. But she's no miracle worker.

I slide off the chair and my sister sits herself down, keeping her face as still as possible so our mother can go to work. But just before Mother steps in front of her, wielding a brush in one hand and some eye shadow in the other, I catch sight of Amethyst's face in the mirror. Even without makeup, she is beautiful. Both halves of her. I can't stand it.

"I'm going to walk to the square by myself," I announce, to no one in particular. Mother and Father don't care where I go, so long as I'm kept calm and away from them. I just don't want to spend another reaping day walking alongside Amethyst, watching all her admirers and friends approach her, compliment her on her dress, her hair, her _face_. It's sickening. She doesn't deserve those comments, doesn't _deserve _to be beautiful.

With this thought in mind, I turn quickly away from my sister and mother, who've barely given any indication that they've heard me, and stride out of the room, down the steps and through the door to our house.

The fresh air is nice, at least. Wind doesn't care what you look like; it hangs around you nonetheless. The same cannot be said for the fickle friends of 1, who like you for your looks and looks alone. You see, there's something of a pecking order here in my district. If you're pretty enough, you gain the title of "Queen Bee", and everyone is obliged to follow your orders and stroke your ego whenever you need it. If you just don't meet those standards, then you're a follower, sentenced to a life of pleasing others.

This is why I don't fit in anymore. Before the accident, I was one of the most beautiful girls in the district, and I wasn't planning on giving that up to be a follower just because I lost my looks. So everyone left me – _abandoned_ me. For more beautiful people.

"Um . . . e-excuse me, Raven? I was, ah . . . looking for your sister."

For people like Amethyst.

I freeze mid-stride as the soft, delicate voice reaches my ears, unearthing a horde of memories best kept buried. Sapphire Marks; it's Sapphire Marks.

Two years younger than me, yet when I was fourteen, I counted her as one of my most loyal followers. Always hanging around, always enthusiastic with her compliments, always ready to do my homework or chores or whatever tasks were beneath me. To her, I was the most incredible person in District 1; to me, she was nothing but one of my many toys, to be played with and used and eventually broken.

But it wasn't her that did the breaking.

One day, I realised that little, unimportant Sapphire was actually sister to Silver Marks, who I'd believed to have been the most attractive boy in the district. So I made her throw a party at her house, giving me an opportunity to get to know him better. Of course, I didn't tell her the last part, which was why she'd screwed it up so badly; the get-together was held on a day where Silver had gone over to his friend's, and I ended up being stuck at Sapphire's house with a bunch of other idiot followers, forced to endure a ridiculous tea party.

Funny how I remember certain details so well. The pearly white tea cups, Sapphire's beautiful fingers, the exact thought that ran through my head as our clumsy host tried to serve me tea. _I'd rather die than sit through this. God, these people are so dull. Can't something _exciting _happen?_

These are just the sorts of opportunities life waits for.

Sapphire had been standing over me, shaking as she prepared to pour the tea due to the threat I'd just made should she spill even a drop on my new dress. It was a large kettle she held, filled to the brim with boiling hot liquid; some might say this excuses the accident. Excuses the fact that her hands slipped, and instead of pouring me a cup, she allowed the entire teapot to come crashing down on my face, shattered porcelain and burning fluids marring my fair skin forever. No, there is _no _excuse. Especially not after she left me for Amethyst.

I turn on the girl now, staring into her own terrified blue eyes. She still respects me, but out of fear rather than awe, and while she usually goes out of her way to avoid me, today seems to be an exception. There aren't many people out on the streets – still a bit early to head to the square – but still, no one wants to be caught walking along in District 1. It would only serve to make you the talk of the teenaged community. _Did you see Sapphire all by herself today? Look at that ridiculous Sapphire girl, alone with no friends! Raven is such a loser._

No, not Raven. Sapphire.

"I-I was just wondering . . ." The younger girl peters off, her eyes unconsciously darting to the burnt side of my face. The sheep is lost without her shepherd, and if Sapphire doesn't find Amethyst soon, the poor girl might just explode. People like her just can't handle being alone and having to make decisions for themselves. "Where . . . where Amy might be."

"Where do you _think_, idiot?" It's not fair – not fair that Sapphire is now prettier than I am, because she clearly doesn't have any brains to go with her looks. It's clear the idea of checking our house didn't even occur to her.

Until now. _Stupid sheep. _Sapphire's flawless skin burns with an embarrassed blush as she realises what I mean, her face looking almost as red as mine for a moment. "O-Oh . . . right . . ." I roll my one good eye and turn to storm away, but before I can, Sapphire's well-developed follower instincts take over and before she can stop herself she calls back. "You know, you look . . . y-you look really beautiful in that dress."

And everything else disappears.

For a moment, I can't do anything. Can't see, can't hear, can't breathe – every nerve in my body is focused on that one word. _Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful. _Sapphire was obviously trying to make me feel better, interpreting my rudeness as merely a bad day for me, and not reading deeper to understand exactly why I hate her so much. Because she burned me. Because she abandoned me. Because she's prettier than I am. And she knows it. She's _pitying _me, with her false praise. She's _lying._

"You think I'm beautiful?" I whirl around, feeling my face contort into a look of pure rage, and the girl takes a step back in shock. "You think _this _is beautiful?!" My hand rises and Sapphire flinches back, but it's my own cheek my palm hits, rubbing furiously to remove the makeup underneath. "I'm hideous_! Hideous_! How _dare_ you pity me! Do you think this is beautiful?" I tear at the thin, silken strap drooped over one of my shoulders and the top of the dress slips down lopsidedly when it breaks. "Do you think _this_ is beautiful?" I grab a handful of lace on the side of my skirt, ripping and clawing at it until the whole thing is a mess of rags. "_Do you?!"_

I pause for a moment to glare at Sapphire, only to realise she's already taken off, sprinting as fast as she can away from me in her high heels. Only a nervous glance back shows me the terror in her eyes, the way her eyebrows tilt in fear. _Good_. Not so beautiful now, huh, Sapphire? I hope she gets a permanent wrinkle there. I hope her eye sockets grow so wide, her eyeballs fall out of them. It would serve her _right_.

My shoes splash in a puddle from last night's rain as I turn to leave once more, and when I look down, I catch sight of myself between the ripples in the water. Torn dress, makeup gone; I'm hideous. Like always. It's not _fair_.

Maybe next time, I shouldn't take it out on myself. After all, I'm not pretty; I'm not the source of the problem. Beautiful people are. They're careless and stupid and ignorant and _not ugly. _

It's not fair; it's just not fair.

* * *

**Caspian Thicket**

The day my father kicked me out, he made sure to mention the one reason I'd be able to return home. For the reapings. Six months I spent in that old Training Centre, mourning my old room, wishing every day I could go back to my house. But now that I'm finally here, I wish I could be anywhere but.

I don't think I could have managed to even ring the doorbell, knowing that summoning my father would seal my fate for today, but I don't have to. The moment I step in view of my house's front windows, the door opens, revealing the man fully prepared to send me to my death.

"Caspian." His voice is sharp and curt; maybe he's feeling just as awkward as I am. Six months without seeing each other is a long time, and my last memory of my father isn't exactly a happy one. Over and over I'd dreamed of this moment, dreamed that on the day I came back to the house, he'd welcome me with open arms and ask me to forget about ever planning to volunteer. But the look in his eyes is so determined now that I can't even find it in myself to hope for this outcome. He's still going to make me do it. And I will. There's nothing I can do to change it.

Without another word, he steps back, allowing me to reluctantly step into the familiar foyer. Weird, how little the house has changed since I've been gone. I'd felt like I'd forgotten everything, but now that I'm standing here, I can remember all the little details. The two bronze statues on either side of the staircase. The small wooden table that always seems to hold the same two books. Nothing's changed much.

Except me.

I can hear my mother bustling around in the kitchen, but she doesn't come to the door to greet me, even though it's been six months since we last saw each other. She maintains that this ridiculous "volunteering business" is between me and my father, therefore she refuses to get involved. I used to think that was a good thing, that it was better to have only one parent to argue with rather than two – but now I feel like being ignored is the worse option.

Unconsciously, I take a step towards the kitchen, partly due to thoughts of my mother and partly because I can still smell breakfast beyond the door. Sausages, eggs, bacon; my stomach growls just at the thought. I haven't had a decent meal in months, instead forced to mooch off those like Kajmeer and Luster. In some horrible cases, I even had to go around looking for tossed away food like some sort of poverty-riddled outer district beggar. It's been awful.

My father notices my discomfort, but instead of allowing me to the kitchen, he grabs me firmly by the shoulders and directs me up the stairs, into my room. My room . . . I just can't get over how strange it is being back in here. "You're skinnier," he says gruffly, just as my stomach growls again. "I hope you don't look any worse for wear. First impression are everything in the Capitol."

Of course, that's all that matters to him. Not that his son's spent the past six months hungry, not that I'm terrified of volunteering, just _the Capitol_. And the Games. All because my father couldn't run to the stage fast enough when he was a kid. He's determined to get the glory of a victor, one way or another.

I wish I could find it in me to argue with him again, somehow manage to talk my way out of volunteering, but in my father's presence, I find myself rendered speechless, unable to utter a sound. What's the point, anyway? He'll just restate his threat and I'll cave once more, like I did six months ago. I'm stuck doing this.

_Stuck dying._

"I've taken the liberty of picking out your outfit. It's on your bed. Change quickly." The sharp commands only serve to remind me exactly who's in charge, and I nod numbly before my father leaves, closing the door tightly behind him. He's right; the reapings are soon, and if I don't get down there quick enough to volunteer, well, I don't want to think about the consequences. So I grab the clothes and change fast, just as he said.

"I . . . I'm done." The first words I've said to my father in six months and they're spoken from another room, yet he hears them all the same and re-enters, a bottle of hair gel clenched tightly in his left hand. I want to tell him that I'm perfectly capable of doing my own hair, but the words stick in my throat and no protests are heard as he lathers the substance into my golden locks. _Just get it over with. Just get it over with, and then . . ._

And then nothing. I'm going to be stuck playing Career Caspian, the Caspian my father wants until the day I die. Unless I win the Games.

_And you can't. Not if she couldn't._

"Your token," my father says, after he finishes with my hair and cleans his hands. "Your mother bought it for you."

A box is shoved into my grasp and I open it, staring down to find a diamond-shaped pendant nestled inside. And that's when it clicks. I glance up, at the full-length mirror across the room, and what it tells me is all I need to know to confirm my suspicions.

My father has done my hair exactly the same way Zeus Dynamos used to wear his. I'm wearing a simple blue shirt like Spinel August had for his reapings, but under my father's instruction, I've left it unbuttoned as Julius Felfet had had his. My shoes are from the Capitol, designed to look good while also being easy to run in, a model endorsed by Argent Ore after he announced his victor hobby as running. And to top it all off, my token is a pendant almost identical to the one Michael Schylla wore into his Games. My father's dressed me up to resemble every single male victor District 1 has ever had. It's not hard to guess why, but I doubt looking like a winner is going to help my case much. In the end, it doesn't matter what I look like; twenty-three people are going to die and odds are I might be one of them.

My startling resemblance to the victors has shocked my father into silence for a moment, and as he stares at me I manage to detect a sort of . . . regret in his eyes? My heart leaps at the thought, the idea that he might be having second thoughts about my volunteering. But then I realise that no, he's merely mourning the time when he could have done this, stood in place and tried for a spot in the Games. This isn't the way he wanted to win them, but it's better than nothing.

"You should head out," he says after another moment, his eyes moving from me to the clock. "Reapings start soon. Your mother and I will come after – it would ruin your image as a Career to be seen walking with your parents."

It feels like he's kicking me out of the house all over again, but all I do is nod and head for the door. For the second time today, I've suddenly realised that I can't stand to keep up my act a moment longer. And I have to get out of here before I break, because if I don't, I might start shouting and arguing with my father. Who knows what might happen to Bree then.

Of course, he can't just let me go that easily, and as I stride swiftly down the stairs I can still hear him call out, "You'd best get to the stage first. Or else."

Then I'm out of the house, moving as fast as I can away from him. But there's nothing I can do to outrun his commands.

The seventeens make up a large portion of the square, making the task of finding Bree impossible when I'm admitted to my section. District 1 has a pretty large population, enough that special viewing balconies have been built around us to house those watching the ceremony. The square itself is reserved for those eligible to volunteer. Those not planning on doing so are encouraged to stand off to the sides where they won't get in the way.

Quite a few people are milling about around the edges, all pointing and whispering together as they discuss who might volunteer. I seem to be receiving a fair amount of the attention and try for my most dazzling grin, though it's a hard expression to keep up, what with my father's talk still fresh in my head. Still, my smile does have the desired effect, and I notice quite a few girls giggling and winking back. At least I look like Career Caspian on the outside.

Several whoops and cheers rise up from the crowd as the mayor enters to give us the short speech on the Treaty of Treason. Seeing as we're one of the Capitol's most loyal allies, we get a much quicker version than most districts – really, it might as well just be a welcoming speech to the ceremony. After all, everyone's here to see the reapings; no one cares about the history.

This becomes obvious as our escort finally takes to the stage, earning a much louder round of applause than the mayor. The woman beams widely, curtseying around and positively glowing from the attention – that or it's just the new neon yellow colour she's dyed her skin.

"Hello again, District One!" she shouts into the microphone, earning another round of cheering. "It's that time of year again! And I know you're all just waiting to get to the reapings, so why don't we jump on in? Girls first!"

She prances over to the bowl on her left, but before she can even dip a hand into the mass of paper slips, someone's already up and sprinting for the stage. Rumour had it around the district that Amethyst Briseis's crazy sister had been planning on volunteering, and with all the gossip about her, no one really wanted to get in her way. I'd never met the girl personally; she may be my age, but I went to one of the district's public schools, whereas I hear Raven was a member of the prissy, upper-class, private institutions littered throughout the richest part of 1. Bree apparently used to know her, before her parents let her switch schools so she could be with me and Cori. Apparently she was a shallow, vain bitch up until she was fourteen, then had some sort of accident that burned half her face and all of her sanity.

Looking up at the girl onstage, who I'm assuming is Raven, I find I can definitely believe the rumours. Her dress is in rags, sleeves torn and skirt ripped, while makeup is spread unevenly across her face, looking in some places like it's been wiped off. Or clawed off. But almost worse is her eye. We all grew quite familiar to the look of madness after watching the District 4 girl from last year's Games, and Raven's holds that same distinct appearance. Like something's missing within her eye's grey depths. I pity the people who'll meet her in the arena.

_That's you. You may be allies in the Career Pack for a while, but everyone knows that doesn't last. Eventually, she'll be your enemy. You'll be the one fighting the crazy person._

_And you know how that turns out. The girls from 10 and 11 last year, they both died at the hands of someone who later became crazy. So did Cori's friend, that girl, Rhine. And our tribute Achilles, and the boys from 4 and 6 and the girl from 7. Even if you end up winning, crazy is contagious. Remember Janaff Skye right after he killed Meredith? Crazy._

_Crazy or dead. Or a life without Bree._

_Those are your choices._

"And now that we have our, er, _wonderful_ female tribute, it's time to pick the boys!" Up ahead, our escort is quickly continuing the ceremony, perhaps in an attempt to draw attention away from Raven, who's currently aiming a hostile glare and everyone who looks her way. Definitely not District 1's typical attractive teenager, a fact that seems to disappoint our escort. It's clear she's hoping for someone more traditional with the boys. A real Career.

_You're not a real Career. Not anymore._

_But really, you don't have another choice._

"And for the boys we have-"

"I volunteer!"

The words are out of my mouth before my brain can think them over anymore. Probably a good thing – if I'd hesitated over volunteering for much longer, I'd probably manage to talk myself out of it. In District 1, we pride ourselves on having the best manners and etiquette, and there's an unspoken rule for volunteers to wait until the escort asks for you. But Raven broke that today, rudely interrupting our escort in her haste to be the first to the stage. And I can't take any chances either.

"_You'd best get to the stage first. Or else."_

"Another volunteer!" The escort is the only one seemingly not fazed by my early volunteering – probably because she was transferred to us from District 2 only a few years ago – and eagerly welcomes me up to the stage as I stride through the crowd. Others, though, aren't nearly as happy to watch me go.

"Hang on." Someone steps forward angrily just as my foot touches the first step. "He has to wait. We always have to wait. You can just barge forward and volunteer right away."

I'd recognise the boy anywhere as Daryus Ceekwin, the most popular potential volunteer in the eighteen-year-olds' age group. Hulking form, enormous muscles, determined glimmer in his eyes: a true Career. What I wouldn't give to let him throw his life away in the Games.

But, I have a reputation to uphold and a threat to prevent. "Well, I just did," I say back, hopping up the last few steps and meeting his scowl with a smirk. "Sue me."

"It's against the rules."

"I'm pretty sure the Hunger Games don't _have_ any rules. Except kill or be killed." I crack my knuckles and step forward, towering over him thanks to the height of the stage. "You want to play by that rule?"

Daryus looks like he'd love to give it a shot, but before he can make a move, our escort is running up to me, microphone in one hand while the other immediately begins touching my bare arm. "Oh _my_." Her eyes take in the rest of me as her fingers skim over my muscles and she nods enthusiastically, completely ignoring Daryus. "Yes, this one's a fighter. And look how gorgeous he is! Oh, District One, you've got a winner here! And what was your name, hon?"

"Caspian Thicket," I say into the microphone, smirking as Daryus's face reddens further, his whole form practically shaking with rage until one of his friends pulls him back into the crowd. Other than them, though, everyone else seems positively ecstatic with my volunteering, cheering and clapping and chanting my name. Like I've already won the Games.

_If only it were that easy._

* * *

**Raven Briseis**

_Gorgeous, _she said, _gorgeous. _My new district partner is _gorgeous._

I hate him. We may end up being in the Career alliance together, but already, I hate him.

_Gorgeous._

He doesn't deserve it. Just like-

"Raven!" The door to my room bursts open as Amethyst enters, followed by my two rather reluctant parents. "I knew you could make it, congrats! You'll do great in the Games."

She doesn't actually care, I know she doesn't. No, the only good thing about me volunteering is that it ups her status in the district, especially if I make it to the final eight and she gets to appear on TV for an interview in front of the entire country. And if I win, it will just make her victory more spectacular, when the time comes for her the volunteer. Two siblings as victors, that's never happened before. And I don't want it ever _to _happen. She doesn't deserve it, doesn't deserve to be compared to me.

"Amy's right, honey, wonderful job," my mother says, trying for a supportive smile. It doesn't work. "We all wanted this for you."

Yes, they wanted this for me. Until I had the accident. Then they put all their faith in Amethyst. They don't really think I can win, and I can see them reasoning that perhaps, it might not be the worst thing in the world if I did. It's Amethyst they really love. She stole _everything _from me.

"I want a moment alone with my sister," I announce abruptly, surprising everyone. Amethyst may be blind to it, but Mother knows how much I envy my sister.

_No, not envy. You don't envy her. She just doesn't deserve the things she has. It's not that you're jealous. It's that you _hate _her._

"But Raven," my father begins nervously, "we've all come to say goodbye . . ."

"And you've said it. I want to talk to Amethyst alone."

Both Mother and Father glance worriedly at each other, but after my accident they made a pact to go along with whatever I wanted, scared that otherwise, I might snap. Ridiculous. But useful in getting what I want.

The two look to Amethyst, who's relaxing casually in one of the plush chairs nearby, and perhaps it's her unconcerned expression that finally gets them up and moving. The door slams shut behind them and for a moment, neither of us speak.

"Oh, aren't these adorable?" A servant approaches the two of us, a platter of tea and cookies held in his hands. District 1 is the luxury district after all, and everyone wants the goodbyes to be as pleasant as possible. Amethyst picks up one of the cookies, shaped and decorated to look like the heads of our past victors. "Don't you think Raven? They look so . . ." She peters off as she realises what else is on the platter, then turns to glare at the servant. "Take this away."

"Why?" I ask, before the man can even move.

Amethyst looks at me as though I should be seeing the obvious. "Well, the tea. Doesn't it, I don't know, bring up bad memories?"

So she thinks I'm weak. Weak enough that a simple drink would make me remember the accident and, what, make me hate myself all over again? No, it's _her_ I hate. "Leave it," I command, just as the man bends down to pick it up. "I can't believe you'd think I was scared of tea."

Amethyst shrugs and reclines back into her seat. "Oh, almost forgot." She reaches a hand into her purse and withdraws . . . my doll.

"It was the only thing I could really think of for your token," she continues, handing it to me. "I mean, you're all against jewellery because it's trying to make you beautiful, or whatever. I should have gotten a new one though – that thing is hideous, and falling apart."

Hideous, she calls it. When I was younger, before Amethyst was born, Mother and Father bought me this doll. In preparation for having a little sister, they said. The figure was beautiful, with grey eyes and black hair just like me. But it's not like having a sister at all. I could make the doll do whatever I wanted, but at the end of the day, it was just my puppet. It could never threaten to steal anything from me. To make sure, after the accident, I burned half the doll's face as well. So it would still look like me, and not a bit more beautiful. And Amethyst calls it hideous.

She doesn't understand. She gets by in life on her looks, and looks alone. But she doesn't deserve them. I'd like to see her without her shining, beautiful skin, her sharp cheekbones, her thin, pointed chin. She thinks she can take everything I used to have, she thinks she can replace me? She can't. Not until she's had an accident of her own. Not until she's become ugly. Beautiful people like her should _all_ turn hideous. Just so they can see how useless they really are.

My free hand curls around the handle of the teapot. "You want some?"

Amethyst frowns, confused by my sudden offer. "Uh, sure."

I lift the kettle off the platter, suspending it over one of the two cups present. Then I shoot my arm out and smash the teapot into Amethyst's face.

Shards of porcelain shatter everywhere from the impact, the tinkling sound they make as they hit the ground completely drowned out by Amethyst's shriek. Boiling hot tea drips down her face, mingling with droplets of blood that quickly become more numerous as her hands fly to her face, trying to save what little she can of her flawless features.

There's blood on my own hand as I pull it back – must have been hit by a piece of glass when the pot broke. I don't feel any pain though, even as two Peacekeepers rush in to restrain me. No, pain is now reserved for Amethyst, still deafening everyone with her screams even as another pair of Peacekeepers come to her aid. There's nothing they can really do though. Oh, she'll survive. But she'll never be beautiful again.

_You wanted to replace me, sweet sister? Well, now you can. Now _you're _the hideous one._

And for the first time since the accident, I genuinely smile.

* * *

**_So there you go! I hope it was all right, I'm very out of practice with writing reapings and it may take me a few chapters to really get back into them._**

**_Anyways, blog link:_**

**_ 38thgamestomarvelatdeath . blogspot. ca/_**

**_Idiot that I am, I accidentally did it backwards. So District 12 is at the top and District 1 is on the bottom, sorry :) I'd love to know what everyone thinks of the tributes! Not that you'll be able to get much of an idea from what little info there is on the blog, but I have a feeling one or two might stand out :)_**

**_And now is a good moment for me to segue into thanking everyone for their tributes. Seriously, I have NEVER seen such beautiful tribute forms! They were all so perfect, I honestly wish I could have plausibly invented ten more districts to fit everyone in. Choosing the final tributes was incredibly difficult, even with two of the reserved spots becoming free, I had 26 submissions for the 13 spots that weren't reserved. And honestly, they were all so detailed and beautiful, I just couldn't decide. That's honestly why this chapter and the blog took so long to post, I was still fretting over who to accept. I've made my decision now though and I'm really, really sorry if your character wasn't accepted. I can guarentee you it was no fault of yours, everyone's forms were absolutely perfect. It's just the sad truth that I can only accept 24 tributes. So thank you everyone for your incredible submissions, and I'm incredibly sorry if I didn't accept yours._**

**_So now this SYOT has officially begun! Hurray :) Hope everyone liked this first chapter, I'd love to know what you all thought!_**


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